Goodbye, Hawkeye
by MASHCRASHER
Summary: Alt. Ending to "Where There's a Will, There's a War". Hawkeye's been killed at the Aid Station, and the reading of his will commences at the 4077th. In this story, Hawkeye had already made the envelope for Erin Hunnicutt, and thought to add it for BJ.
1. No News is Bad News

Where There's a Will, There's a War

BJ Hunnicut was unusually tense as he worked through their sixth hour of OR that session. It was obvious that it would last much longer.

"Bad news, folks. The phones are out at Battallion Aid."

"Damn!"

BJ cursed angrily. "What the hell's going on up there?" "I dunno, sir." Klinger shrugged, setting the newly arrived patient down on one of the tables, and retracing his steps back into Pre-Op. So far there had been no sign of Hawkeye.

"Now, BJ, there's no reason to think that the dead surgeon is Hawkeye." Father Mulcahy said soothingly, touching the silver cross around his neck. "Yeah, and there's no reason to think that he's not, either." BJ spat back from behind his mask.

*Three hours later, back at the Battallion Aid Station*

"Captain Rackley!" A corpsman called from across the tent. "What is it, Saunders?" "Phonelines are back up. There should be a slight lull in wounded, but the artillery fire's keeping up." The Captain sighed. "Get me through to I-Corp. Now."

Ten minutes later, Rackley held the earpiece up to his ear, speaking into the mouthpiece in a tired, dejected tone. "General, we need that replacement surgeon here A.S.A.P. Yeah, we just lost another surgeon to shellfire. No, the station's alright. He was outside getting a breath of fresh air, and... well... you know the rest. The one who was filling in 'til we got the new guy. Yes, I can give identification; Benjamin Franklin Pierce, Captain, M*A*S*H 4077...


	2. A Day of Mourning

Chapter Two  
  
"It's been three days. Three fucking days since we've heard anything about Hawkeye. And that anything was that he had been declared Missing In Action after the Aid Station bugout. Why?!"  
  
BJ slammed his fist down on the table, droplets of beer settling on the polished wooden top. Margaret was sitting next to him, tears welling up in her eyes for the millionth time that day, let alone that week, and Colonel Potter was just holding his beer in both hands, staring at the table. Father Mulcahy was the center of attention at the moment, delivering his twice daily prayer to keep Hawkeye safe, wherever he was. Suddenly, Klinger ran in, his tan face white as a sheet.  
  
"Sir, it's I-Corps. And it's about Hawkeye."  
  
Mulcahy stopped in mid-prayer, and everyone stared at Klinger. BJ, Margaret, and Colonel Potter all jumped up, wobbling slightly, but if anyone could ever put off the effects of too much to drink, it was now. They ran through the clerk's office into Potter's, where the Colonel grabbed his phone out of its bag and fairly bashed it against the side of his head, trying to make it reach his ear.  
  
"Hello, Colonel Sherman T. Potter here, C.O. M*A*S*H 4077."  
  
There was silence. Nobody was breathing, until Potter released a gruff cough, turning his back on BJ and Margaret. Everyone saw him reach for the handkerchief in his pocket and place it to his face, including Father Mulcahy and Klinger who were in less than thirty seconds after the other three.  
  
"Thank you for telling us, General, but why couldn't the news have gotten here sooner?"  
  
Potter demanded, his voice quiet, at a significantly higher pitch than usual, and quavering. Chairs were already set up from the many senior staff meetings that had been held in the Colonel's office lately, and while they were waiting anxiously beside the phone for any news. Each man or woman sank into one, not daring to believe what could have happened to their beloved Hawkeye.  
  
"Yes, I understand. Thank you again General. Time of death? Right. Did he - did he have a last will and testament? He did? It's on the way? Alright. Goodbye, General."  
  
"NO!"  
  
BJ roared as Colonel Potter turned around, his wisened face streaked with tears. Everyone seemed to think that he could fix anything, being the big, important Colonel that he was. This one just couldn't be fixed. Now, he was nothing more than a grief-stricken old man who collapsed into his chair and buried his face in his handkerchief, which was already soaked.  
  
"Dear God."  
  
The good Father breathed, clutching his cross in a pale fist. Margaret's shoulders shook with silent sobs, and BJ was holding her, and they were crying silently on eachothers' shoulders.  
  
  
  
"Here here, what's all this? It's the first sleep I've had in three days, and suddenly some pale-faced ninny comes rushing in to wake me-"  
  
Charles walked in, standing tall as always, obviously very confused until he saw all the tears. Even Klinger was sitting, hunched, a hand against his forehead to hide his eyes, but there were telltale dots on the thighs of his fatigues.  
  
"Oh no..."  
  
He whispered, taking a seat. Charles Emerson Winchester the Third was speechless, probably for the first time in his life. Then his eyes began to water, and he was forced to bring out a silk hanky of his own. The office's occupants just sat, mourning the death of he who was the very backbone of their unit. The one whose jokes kept everyone sane. The one whose brilliance with medicine had increased their efficiency rate by several percent.  
  
Or rather, the one who *had* been the very backbone of their unit. The one whose jokes *had* kept everyone sane, and still they would never hear that hearty laugh again. The one whose brilliance with medicine *had* been surpassed by few, yet his fingers would never bring life and fight off death, the way they once had. Hawkeye Pierce was dead. It just wasn't fair. 


End file.
